Hearts
“WE’RE GOING TO WRITE A NEW CHAPTER IN YOUR BOOK. THE ONE WHERE TRUVY GETS HER FIRST KISS.”
Before she could say anything, he captured her chin in his strong hand and turned her face. All the while he brought his head lower, he stared at her mouth. His closed lips touched hers. Lightly. Wet from snow. Cold. But as the kiss went on, warmer. Much warmer.
She could feel the blood beating in his lips. Feel the cadence in her own. Her lower lip became his sole focus; he alternated between gently suckling the flesh and softly tracing its plumpness.
Breathless, she settled into the kiss. Her first. So unexpected. Beyond her expectations. Every one of her senses was in discord. Her body felt like it was plummeting and soaring at the same time; her lungs felt oxygen-deprived. All that she had wondered about was no longer a mystery. The kiss was what The Science of Life had alluded to:
The appetite of sexual emotion pervades every ele ment of our bodies and in every nerve it thrills with pleasure, or grows mad with desire demanding to be fruitful.
Pulses came to life in her that she had never imagined she could feel. So maddening with—the need for more than this. . . .
PRAISE FOR STEF ANN HOLM AND
HONEY
“Stef Ann Holm’s Honey is a wonderfully rich, heart-warming, deeply romantic novel destined to go straight to the heart. Holm’s many fans will be enthralled, and her legions of new readers will feel they have just unwrapped a very special gift.”
—Amanda Quick
“Few authors paint as warm and wonderful a portrait of small-town America as Stef Ann Holm. The multitextured plot and three-dimensional characters combined with that Americana feel create a bit of homespun perfection.”
—Romantic Times
“Honey is a fabulous historical romance [that] will gain the author an MVW (Most Valuable Writer) award.”
—Painted Rock Reviews
“You don’t have to be a sports aficionado to thoroughly enjoy Honey. This is also a really wonderful slice of Victorian Americana and a real winner for Ms. Holm.”
—Romance Communications
“Ms. Holm has written a beautiful story of love, devotion, compassion, and strength. Add in humor and unforgettable characters and you have a precious gem. Honey, following Harmony and Hooked, takes you back to a place and a time you never want to leave. This book will win your heart.”
—Old Book Barn Gazette
“With plenty of emotion and laughter, Ms. Holm effortlessly draws her audience into the vibrant realm of the early twentieth century.”
—Rendezvous
HOOKED
“Stef Ann Holm dishes up a slice of Americana that is not only love and laughter at its best, but a darned good emotional read.”
—Calico Trails
“Guaranteed to bring you hours of enjoyment, laughter, and love. Few writers bring small-town America to life the way Stef Ann Holm does—she breathes life into engaging characters and creates a town where people seem like your neighbors: you’d move in, if you could.”
—Romantic Times
“This is one book with a title that lives up to its name as readers will be Hooked!”
—BookBrowser Reviews
Books by Stef Ann Holm
Hearts
Honey
Hooked
Harmony
Forget Me Not
Portraits
Crossings
Weeping Angel
Snowbird
King of the Pirates
Liberty Rose
Seasons of Gold
Published by POCKET BOOKS
SONNET BOOKS
New York London Toronto Sydney Singapore
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
An Original Publication of POCKET BOOKS
A Sonnet Book published by
POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020
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Copyright © 2001 by Stef Ann Holm
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020
ISBN: 0-7434-2215-5
SONNET BOOKS and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Epilogue
For Frank and Gloria Wysocki, whose generosity enabled me to write this book without constantly having to press the “save” button on my old, unreliable computer. You’re a couple of swell parents—not to mention much-loved grandparents. Thanks for everything.
Prologue
I n her many years as headmistress of the St. Francis Academy for Girls, Lucretia Pond had never encountered another teacher like Truvy Valentine. Five years ago, Lucretia had hired the Gillette’s Business College graduate as an economics teacher and athletic coach. Wise or waggish, flamboyant or foolhardy, indomitable or insubordinate—no single word characterized Miss Valentine. She lived life on her own terms. And in doing so, she created her own brand of havoc—or, if Lucretia looked at it through rose-colored glasses— her own unique style.
For in truth, there were many qualities about Miss Valentine to admire.
But in reality, those qualities worthy of admiration were the precise things that put Lucretia in a precarious position with the new benefactress of the school.
Mrs. Mumford had arrived for an unannounced visit and inspection of the classrooms to view how her financial aid was being used. There had been no opportunity to take Miss Valentine aside and inform her that her best behavior was imperative. When Lucretia and Mrs. Mumford came upon her economics class, today’s lesson hadn’t been about social science. It had been strictly science—of the anatomy kind.
Human anatomy.
Miss Valentine had been discovered reading aloud from a nonregulation textbook. Lucretia had been too astounded by the dialogue to stop the lesson; she should have done so immediately. But her impeccable memory was able to summon the exact verbiage, and she now recited the delinquent words to Miss Valentine, who stood in front of her desk.
“ ‘The reproduction of the human species is not dependent on accident. Nor is it left to the caprice of the individual. It is made secure in a natural instinct which, with irresistible force and power, demands—’ ” Lucretia didn’t know what demands were made on instinct. It was at that point that Mrs. Mumford had fainted in the doorway—as MissValentine gasped in surprise—and had cut off her oration. After that, feminine chaos ensued. Young girls rose from their seats with high-pitched screams of “Help!” while Miss Valentine, a vial of ammonia spirits in hand, dashed toward the prostrate dowager.
Removing her half-spectacles, Lucretia gave Miss Valentine a pointed stare.
A dark brown braid fell over one shoulder of her white shirtwaist. She’d tucked a pencil behind her ear and wore a whistle around her neck. In height, she was above average, which made her figure quite striking when she entered a room—
although she’d confessed to Lucretia that she didn’t think it an asset to be as tall as most men.
In the quiet that filled the office, Miss Valentine uttered a single word: “Fulfillment.”
Baffled, Lucretia repeated, “ ‘Fulfillment’?”
“A natural instinct that demands fulfillment.” Miss Valentine gave a further explanation that was so blatantly forthright, it dumbfounded Lucretia into silence. “ ‘It is not only sensual pleasure that is found in the gratification of this normal impulse. There also exist higher feelings of satisfaction in perpetuating one’s own single—’ ”
“That’s quite enough, Miss Valentine.” Fending off the heat consuming her cheeks, Lucretia motioned with her chin toward the chair before her desk. “I wasn’t aware that St. Francis offered a course on life propagation.”
Miss Valentine lowered herself onto the leather cushion and conceded, “We don’t.”
“Then why were you teaching it? What to expect from marriage and sexual congress is a mother’s duty to instruct, not ours.”
“Yes, Miss Pond, but too many mothers, because of mock modesty, allow their daughters to enter into marriage in total ignorance.”
“While I agree with you that women need an education on morality and modesty, what they learn and when is for their mothers to determine. Our duty is to educate in subject fundamentals.” Lucretia delivered her next words in a severe voice. “You shocked Mrs. Mumford. And I daresay you’ve shocked me.”
“I’m very sorry. I didn’t know Mrs. Mumford was coming.”
“Neither did I. But she gives this school financial aid and our doors are always open for her visits. I told you and the other teachers, the benefactress believes in the old ways of deportment and education for young ladies. It was on these terms she agreed to support us.” Lucretia knit her fingers together with an air of authority she didn’t like to use with Miss Valentine. “A strict classroom environment, appropriate uniforms, and proper conduct must be maintained. That means teaching only St. Francis–approved curriculum.”
To say Mrs. Mumford had been offended by the textbook reading was an understatement. After she came around, Lucretia had done her best to calm the dowager, but without much success. This very moment, Mrs. Mumford rested in her private chamber with a sick headache, the tour delayed.
“I feel terrible,” Miss Valentine said, straightening. “Honestly I do.”
Lucretia refit her glasses over her nose. “As you should feel, Miss Valentine. This isn’t the first time something like this has happened.”
Lucretia had overlooked a broken rule here and there, simply because of Miss Valentine’s devotion to her students. In spite of her spirited ways, she had a commanding gentleness. But that favorable disposition was packaged with firebrand feminism and its ideals. Miss Valentine argued that the girls should be allowed to wear modern bust girdles—a type of bosom bindery for women—and knickers while playing sports. These “indelicate items” weren’t high on Lucretia’s list of things for which she felt like taking Miss Valentine to task.
Bordering on the need for censure was Miss Valentine’s credo akin to the Thomas motto: Girls can learn, can reason, can compete with men in the grand fields of literature, science, and conjecture. For the most part, Lucretia didn’t see any overt harm in that one. However, a major infraction was today’s fiasco. She simply could not overlook such a grave error in judgment. Sexual discussions were definitely not within the perimeters of proper St. Francis curriculum.
To step out of bounds was unacceptable.
To do so in front of the benefactress was intolerable.
“If I spoke with Mrs. Mumford,” Miss Valentine offered, “I could make her see my reasoning. Understanding is the first step toward acceptance. I would tell her that should a young woman decide not to marry, the journey in life that she’ll take has to be commanded with heroism. She may have to rely chiefly on her intellectual powers, her wit, her imagination, her fancy.”
“And yet you spoke of her . . .” Even Lucretia, who considered herself modern, had a difficult time of forming the words. “. . . her natural instincts. Really, Miss Valentine, that insinuates that women enjoy having relations.”
“Well, Miss Pond, as unusual as that may sound, that’s precisely what the book said.”
“What book is this and where did you get it?”
“The Science of Life, and I ordered it through the mail. The doctor who wrote the book is a member of the University Medical Society and his list of credentials is impressive.” Her brown eyes brightened with enthusiasm. “I’ve learned quite a lot about human behavior. Women’s especially.” But at that last thought, Miss Pond observed a puzzled lift to Miss Valentine’s brows.
It was that instant of vulnerability that had Lucretia softening her tone. “I understand your heart was in the right place.”
“Of course it was. The girls gathered their courage to ask me about the subject and I couldn’t refuse. Both Miss Cooper and Miss Price wouldn’t talk about it if their—well, they just wouldn’t talk about it. We’ve just entered a new century, Miss Pond.” Her face was full of strength, shining with purpose and lively interest. “We’re fighting for the vote. We’d better understand the anatomy of men, because that’s who we’re up against in getting a chance to cast our ballots. Did you know a man’s brain weighs fifty ounces and a woman’s is forty-four ounces? Is a mere six ounces any reason to keep us from making our opinions count?”
“In this school, it is.”
“I don’t see why that has to be the case.”
“And that’s precisely why you’re in serious trouble.”
The graveness in Lucretia’s statement drained the animated color from Miss Valentine’s cheeks. “I’m sorry. I honestly will try not to disappoint you again,” she said with firm assurance.
With a heaviness in her chest, Lucretia sighed. In the five years Miss Valentine had been teaching, there had been many trials to weather, all with the same well-intended conviction. Only this time, second chances weren’t an option. She was left with little choice in disciplinary measures.
“Miss Valentine, you’re a wonderfully devoted teacher, but your way of teaching is broader than what we do here.”
“I know I shouldn’t have—”
Lucretia held up her hand for silence. The time for explanations was over. “You lived with two elderly aunts, then went to Gillette’s Business College. Afterward, you came directly to us. Nearly your entire life has been spent in a school. When you applied at St. Francis and wanted to be a part of our staff, that didn’t necessarily mean, however, that you were prepared to provide instruction within the bounds set by the school at which you chose to teach.”
“But I will try. Harder.”
The avowal was spoken with sincerity, but beneath the well-worn gray cashmere of her everyday dress was a zest for living she hadn’t been able to tamp down behind the somber stone walls of the Boise school.
Firming her posture, Lucretia said, “I propose you go out into the world to think about what St. Francis expects from you. If you can expect that from yourself, you may return for the next term. If not, then I’m afraid . . .”
“You’d dismiss me, Miss Pond?” Her voice kept a fragile control.
“I would have no other avenue to take, my dear.” She kindly spoke the endearment. “If you can fully—without a single doubt—accept the rules at St. Francis, I want you back here. Right now, you need to decide what you are capable of.The decision is yours.”
“That’s kind of you.”
“Oh, Miss Valentine.” Lucretia tried to keep the sadness from her tone. “I don’t want to be kind. I want your energy and enthusiasm at St. Francis. But today you overstepped your authority in the classroom. I’ll talk with the financial committee and the benefactress, but the matter is ultimately in your hands.” She felt a pang of regret at the way things had to be. “I’m going to insist that you stay in Montana beyond your scheduled plans and spend more time with
your college friend, Edwina Wolcott. It will do you good to share the company of a woman closer to your own age.”
Miss Valentine’s mouth opened, but she remained quiet.
Miss Pond put her unspoken fears at ease. “You needn’t worry about what your students will think. I’ll tell them that you’re taking an extended Christmas holiday.”
“But arrangements have been made for only a short-term visit.”
“I don’t see why they couldn’t be extended. You’ve mentioned that the family you’ll be staying with is eager to have you as a guest.”
“Yes, but . . .” The words trailed off, and in their place came hesitation and remorse. “As it is, I won’t be seeing my aunts this holiday. They understood because of Edwina’s condition. She’s due to have her baby on the twentieth. Miss Pond, I was only planning on a two-week visit. How can I—”
“Now you can be a comfort to her for longer than that.” Lucretia didn’t bend her resolve. “New babies need lots of helping hands.”
“Yes . . . I suppose . . .” A wistfulness stole into Miss Valentine’s eyes. She grew contemplative for a long while, then visibly resigned; the softening of her shoulders was a clear indication that she realized she had no alternative. “Very well, Miss Pond,” she said quietly, “I’ll take a leave of absence. But I will come back in a manner that’s acceptable to you.”
She rose, determination in her stance. “And that is a promise.”
Chapter
1
F or generations, the Valentines had married on Valentine’s Day—every Valentine except for Truvy, who didn’t have a beau, much less a prospective groom.
At the age of twenty-five, she was an old maid and a husband was no longer a shining hope on the horizon. With February the fourteenth mere months away, she resigned herself to the fact that Cupid’s arrow would be passing her by. Yet again. And although it was disappointing to think that the tradition would stop with her, there was a part of her that was exhilarated and feeling . . . freed.